Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/300607.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Albus_Dumbledore/Tom_Riddle, Tom_Riddle/Horace_Slughorn
  Character:
      Tom_Riddle, Horace_Slughorn, Albus_Dumbledore
  Additional Tags:
      Emotional_Manipulation, Voyeurism, Legilimency, Community:
      pornish_pixies, Teacher-Student_Relationship, Fanwork_of_Fanwork, Cross-
      Generation_Relationship
  Collections:
      Crossgenerational_Slash
  Stats:
      Published: 2005-09-28 Words: 1084
****** Split ******
by pauraque
Summary
     Tom can make everyone do what he wants.
Notes
     For the Fans-For-Fans Challenge at Pornish Pixies. A companion piece
     to Hannelore's delicious (and inspiring!) story "Double Penetration".
  This work was inspired by
      Double_Penetration by hannelore
'I've just been in Divination, sir,' Tom says, sliding his hand into
Dumbledore's cool, dry one. 'Shall I read your palm?'
There was a time when Dumbledore's gaze would have softened, and he would have
let Tom trace the creases of his hand. And Tom would have known to come up the
winding staircase after dark (the railing was high for him to reach then; he'd
be out of breath when he got to the top), and they would go into the
Headmaster's airy bedroom.
Now Dumbledore's eyes are cold and closed as blue rune-stones, and he draws his
hand away. 'I mustn't keep you,' he says, and the polite grace of it is
maddening.
*
Slughorn's mind is jungle-steamy, sticky cobwebs pulling apart in strings. It's
not hard for Tom to get in without Slughorn really noticing; he just has to be
careful not to step on any bruised spots, not to push past the maze of feverish
walls. Tom wonders what all these things are that Slughorn wants to forget, but
now is not the time.
Tom knows how his body arouses Slughorn. He knows his professor dreams of
hipbones and shoulderblades, of Tom's pleasure-twisted face — knit dark
eyebrows, mouth gaping like a fish. Tom watches what Slughorn does when he
thinks of Tom that way, his bedchamber too hot to sleep. Slughorn finds it
uncomfortable to reach around the bulk of his stomach, and instead rubs himself
against a silk-covered pillow clutched between his thighs. The cool fabric is
smooth heaven on the hot skin of his cock as he ruts against it. He strokes his
belly with teasing fingers, then rubs it harder as he gets off, his knees
coming up convulsively.
Tom watches all this with fascination from his own bed several floors away, and
touches himself idly, pensively, as Slughorn drifts off to a satisfied sleep.
*
The view from the Headmaster's chambers was dizzying. Tom would gaze down from
the latticed window at the tiny people inching through the snow, at the doll's-
house shops in Hogsmeade with tiny smoking chimneys. The soles of his feet
tingled with vertigo, but he thirsted for that view.
Dumbledore came up behind him and placed his hands on Tom's bare shoulders,
then slid them down to cross over Tom's chest, pulling him close. Tom felt the
velvet of Dumbledore's robes against his back.
In retrospect, Tom wonders if Dumbledore was afraid he was going to jump.
*
After he has told him about Horcruxes, Tom knows with deep, peaceful certainty
that there is nothing he can't make Slughorn do.
'I want it, Professor,' Tom gasps, arching against him like a cat. He's
watching Slughorn's reactions carefully. 'I can't bear it anymore. I want you
to take me. I want your— your—' He reaches out, lets his
fingertips brush against the underside of Slughorn's fat red prick. He sees the
resolve crumble in Slughorn's watery gaze.
Tom watches it through Slughorn's eyes — watches himself straddle those
broad thighs, his own prick bouncing stiffly as he reaches down and guides the
slick cock into him. Slughorn thinks he is taking Tom's virginity now, and it
amuses Tom how close that brings the man to orgasm. Tom sinks slowly down to
the hilt of Slughorn's cock, stopping every couple of inches with a shudder and
a gasp at how it stretches him. (Dumbledore buggered him much deeper than this,
but Slughorn doesn't know that.) Tom fists the bedsheets and tilts his head
back — yes, that's good, Slughorn likes the whiteness of his throat.
Tom runs his palms over the soft, bulging belly before him, and leans forward
to kiss it, his eyes never leaving Slughorn's face. Slughorn groans like a
wounded animal as he comes helplessly, jerking up so hard into Tom's arse that
he feels the shock all the way up his spine. Slughorn may be big, but he is
small beneath Tom Riddle, a doll on strings.
When Slughorn's done, Tom raises off and then slides up close beside him. Lets
the fat warm hand encircle his prick, as Slughorn likes to do.
'Always know just what old Sluggy wants, don't you.' There's a bit of a chuckle
in the man's voice.
Tom laughs with delight as he ejaculates into Slughorn's hand. He's looking at
the silk-covered pillow propped up at the head of the bed, freshly cleaned.
*
When Slughorn's eyes pass over him in class the next morning, Tom can feel the
niggling seeds of discomfort growing in the man's mind, flush-warm and bruised.
Tom has never understood guilt.
*
Dumbledore's mind is cool and smooth like a high-domed palace, everything in
its place. It reminds Tom of a time long ago when he was in a museum, his
footfalls echoing through the galleries, and severe, uniformed watchmen keeping
a close eye. Dumbledore knows when Tom is looking inside, but he lets him.
'I made him fuck me.' Tom says it out loud, sitting cross-legged on his bed. He
likes the taste of it in his mouth.
I know, says Dumbledore in his mind.
'Wasn't anything like you, of course.'
Dumbledore doesn't answer, but Tom can feel him listening, like the sensation
of someone staring hard at the back of your head.
'I was thinking earlier that his prick wasn't as big as yours, but then I
realised I might just think that because I was smaller then.'
Tom feels Dumbledore recoil, and smiles.
'I still think of it, you know. The way you took me. On my back, feet up in the
air. For some reason—' Tom lies back on his pillow, gazing up at the
ceiling. '—what I remember most is the metalwork on the head of your
bed. The way it felt when I held onto it while you buggered me. Rough and cold.
Left these red creases on my palms I'd look at afterwards.' Tom's prick is
hard, and he can feel the tingle of Dumbledore's arousal as well.
Tom says this part only in his mind: I wonder if it'd feel the same.
'Too old for you now, am I?' Tom says aloud after a pause, unsure for a moment
whether Dumbledore is still listening.
You cannot make everyone do what you want, the Headmaster says, and then he is
gone.
*
Tom fists his cock angrily, hating both of them for bringing him to this. He
finishes it quickly, then lies there fuming, his chest rising and falling
rapidly.
He can make everyone do what he wants.
He knows it.
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